


Apocrypha, 1931

by brocanteur



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/pseuds/brocanteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One summer in Sweden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocrypha, 1931

Lubitch told Louise about Greta, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, they knew each other, and if they hadn't liked one another other from the word go, they certainly did now. During their one and only summer, Greta called Louise Lulu and Louise called Greta You Odd Thing. Years later, Louise would most clearly remember the arch of Greta's back and the longest day she would ever experience—spent idly in a canoe on a lake not far from the cottage Greta rented when she wanted to get away from Stockholm, to be alone. On that day, Louise stared at the Lily of the Valley on the banks, her belly full of potato pancakes and her mind fixed on the way Greta had looked after their first kiss. If she'd been acting, she was a consummate actress. Louise could think of no one better.

There were times when Greta's voice was like a man's, low and brusque, but as she leaned forward, wobbling their little rowboat, the words sliding from between her lips sounded as gentle as a kitty cat's mewl. "Darling," she said—and, oh, the electric thrill that utterance sent down Louise's spine—the syllables so intimate they invited attention and care. "Darling, don't fall in love."

Louise smiled. She had no such intention. "But, _sötnos_ , the scenery's so lush."

 

Greta had a funny tickle spot on her left side, just below her rib cage and Louise, who had a barbaric taste for the sadistic, would tend to it now and again, leisurely driving Greta into a fit of hysterics, the sort that made her sound like a sputtering automobile engine on its way to dying.

"You're cruel," she would say, twisting away. "So cruel, my Lulu."

"Cruelty inspires me!" Louise would proclaim, and off she'd run to write a poem about the infinite torture of love. Hanging over her shoulder, Greta would read what was produced, and when it was done, they would laugh at the poor fools who had to endure such things. Love was for the pitiful, for the weak at heart.

 

When they were in a silly mood, they might pretend to be Spartans training for battle. In lush, damp grass they'd wrestle, and Greta, who was stronger and taller, always won. Pinned and out of breath, Louise was infinitely willful, and she would struggle until Greta sat astride her hips and demanded surrender. Finally, Louise would capitulate. "You are victorious," she would say. "And I am your slave."

Greta had once loved John, and probably Lilyan, too. Louise had never loved anyone, and she was sure she never would. Play-acting the part of a slave was good enough. She wore a toga, and fed Greta peeled grapes.

"When will I be mistress?" she asked, forgetting her place, leaning across the chaise on which Greta lay, pressing her breast to Greta's breast.

Greta's smile was like a will o' the wisp. "When you win the war."

 

"I can't decide," Louise said, her face in the crook of Greta's neck, her arms 'round Greta's waist, her leg insinuating itself between Greta's knobby knees, "whether you're as beautiful as people say."

"I'll help," Greta responded, gravelly-voiced and pink-cheeked and wild-eyed. She was the loveliest creature Louise had ever laid eyes on. "I'm not."

 

She wasn't, of course. There was an ugliness inside of her, just as there was an ugliness inside of everyone Louise had ever met, and would ever meet, because people were ugly given half the chance. It was only a matter of circumstance, how quickly that ugliness revealed itself. Louise made no pretense: "I'll make a fool of myself. I'll crack a crooked smile. I'll say something nasty, just for the sake of it."

Greta was cold—bitterly, blindingly cold. And Louise could only think of melting her.

"I'll set you on fire. Like Joan of Arc, my little martyr, I'll turn you into a fool for love."

But there was no melting Greta. The ice in her veins was deep and solid; she was as barren as tundra. Near the end of their summer, Garbo appeared, fully made up for Hollywood. She'd said she wanted to disappear one day, during a lazy idyll, but Louise didn't know whether to believe that such a construction would ever fade away.

 

Louise's film career foundered, and she began to write. Letters, articles—she had plans for an autobiography. She had words no talkie would ever give her.

One evening, she prepared to post a letter, but changed her mind last minute:

"Greta, my love—yes, I loved you, don't think me quaint or weak or desperate when I say so— _Camille_ was exquisite. Remember our days together? How I wish Paris were as warm as that little cabin. Last night I dreamt of you, and you were a flower, a daffodil. I was the sun."


End file.
